


Strike, Dear Mistress, and Cure His Heart

by PrettyLittlePoutyMouth



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Light Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyLittlePoutyMouth/pseuds/PrettyLittlePoutyMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Faberry have been arguing/not talking all week over something(Insert angst here) Santana finally gets fed up and locks them in a room with a box that says "open after you make up Bitches"(insert smut here) (writers choice on whats in the box;))"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike, Dear Mistress, and Cure His Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mister_Mag00](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mister_Mag00/gifts).



> Written for Mister_Mag00 for the FaberryCon Fanfiction Fundraiser project.

She’s lived through some uncomfortable situations, but _this_ …

It’s worse than being closeted at her parents’ house, worrying about them overhearing her and Brittany. It’s worse than living in her first apartment with Kurt and Rachel with damn near no privacy. Hell, it’s even worse than living with Rachel in their second apartment (after Kurt decided to move in with his boyfriend) when she had first started dating Quinn, and she heard them _fucking_ at all hours of the night and day…and _again_ , when Quinn moved in, and the sex marathons started all over again…

(She’s maybe been a little bitter about sex marathons since she and Brittany stopped having them. Oh, she’s had a lot of other incredible sex, sure, but no one has marathoned _quite_ like Brittany could…)

This is worse. This is _horrendous_.

She’s not even sure what happened, but it’s been like a week of stony silence between Rachel and Quinn. It’s… _palpable_ silence. Like she comes home from class and _feels_ the cold tension in the air. So she goes to her room and stays, while Quinn sits sulkily in the living room, sleeping on the couch, and Rachel stays in their room and slams doors whenever she has to exit, which is Quinn’s cue to leave the apartment and pace the hallway for fifteen minutes to ensure that she doesn’t encounter Rachel in the kitchen that opens into the living room, or on her way in and out of the bathroom.

It’s gotten to the point where she is fucking _sick_ of hiding out in her room while the rest of the house feels like an ice cave or something. She _dreads_ even going to the kitchen for a snack or a beer because she’ll see Quinn sitting there, staring at the television blankly, her mouth set angrily.

Her mother always used to say that desperate times called for desperate measures. And Sue Sylvester always used to say that desperate measures meant you weren’t trying hard enough to seize the power in a situation.

Santana’s solution ends up falling somewhere in the middle.

Phase one: a trip to a…certain store.

Phase two: later on, Santana exits her room. She knows that only Quinn is home at the time, and she approaches her friend, arms folded, glaring down at her. “Okay, time to get over yourself, already,” she snaps.

“Fuck off, Santana,” Quinn growls without even looking away from the television.

Santana’s eyebrows rise. She hadn’t expected Quinn to get to this point so quickly—because, as it’s Quinn, she still doesn’t swear much, so when she does, Santana knows she’s pushed too hard.

“Look, I don’t know why you and Rachel are fighting—”

“—Because it’s absolutely none of your damn business—”

“—But you need to just apologize already.”

“What the hell makes you think this mess is _my_ fault?!”

“Because…” Quinn is now gazing at her in a particularly terrifying wide-eyed, murderous fashion, so she changes tactics again. Sue Sylvester always taught her to prepare for every eventuality. “I don’t know, but I do know that watching you like this is fucking torture,” she tries, a hint of pleading in her voice. Quinn bites her lip, concealing a pained expression. “So, just…come watch _Mean Girls_ with me?”

“Yeah, I love that one, especially when Regina gets hit by a bus…”

Santana winces. “ _But I’m A Cheerleader!_ then?” she improvises, figuring this movie will at _least_ remind Quinn of all the progress she made reconciling her sexuality and her faith. “Come on. You haven’t smiled in a week.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and leans forward to turn on the Wii.

“No, in my room,” Santana presses, “That way we don’t have to worry about Rachel getting home.”

Quinn grunts and then sighs bitterly, standing with exaggerated slowness, wrapping a blanket around herself as she follows Santana reluctantly into her bedroom.

“Get comfortable,” Santana orders, practically shoving Quinn onto her bed, “I’ll go make some popcorn.”

“I’m not hungry,” Quinn protests, with so little emphasis that Santana just ignores her.

Which is good, because she needs to be in the kitchen/living room to enact phase three.

They’re about an hour into the movie, sitting together on Santana’s bed, with Quinn staring just as blankly at Santana’s computer screen as she had been staring at the television all week, the bowl of popcorn mostly untouched between them, when phase three begins in earnest.

Santana hears the front door slam and holds her breath, counting down _three, two, one_.

“Santana!” shrieks a furious voice.

She leaps out of bed, as Quinn, looking apprehensive and irritated, props herself up on her elbow to watch. Rachel pounds on Santana’s door, and Santana pushes it open. Rachel strides in, eyes flashing, “The state of the living room!” she shouts in Santana’s face, but then abruptly loses steam as she notices Quinn propped up on the bed.

Santana darts around her, closes the door, and wedges one of their wooden kitchen chairs under the doorknob.

There is immediate pounding on the other side of the door. Santana just listens as she smirks, surveying the living room. Rachel has a particular pet peeve about straightening up that room, and it had taken Santana years to really remember to put away her shoes and to not leave her jackets draped over the furniture. Today, while popping the popcorn, she’d left three pairs of her shoes strewn around on the floor and two coats draped over the couch. As it’s a behavior she’s sure Rachel believed she’d finally conditioned Santana not to do, she knew it would incense her already-frazzled emotional state.

“Santana! Open this door immediately!” the voice comes through the door, accompanied by thuds and a jiggling of the doorknob.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Santana warns with a smirk, “I’ve wedged a chair under the doorknob. If you try hard enough, I’m sure you could open it, but you’d probably break the chair, or dig grooves into the floor, and you know what the landlord said about taking care of her hardwood floors…”

The doorknob jiggling stops and there’s a frustrated huff. Santana smiles again, “Look, I need you two to make up already, and unless you’re willing to sacrifice our security deposit to get out of there, you’d better get on it, already.”

“You don’t understand!” Rachel whines, “Santana, she said _Chicago_ was better than _Cabaret_!”

Santana can’t really come up with _anything_ to say about that for a good fifteen seconds, and knows her mouth is flapping like a fish, and she finally utters sardonically, “Well, damn, Quinn, that’s quite a personal slight and I totally see how you’ve stood by it all this time. Now, there’s a box on the desk for you both. I’m going to be sitting in the living room listening to my iPod on full blast, but if I see that doorknob move, I’m going to be over there making sure you’ve made up. And if you try to convince me that you’ve made up quicker than like an hour and a half, I will not fall for it. So, get on it and both of you get the fuck over yourselves, already.”

“Santana!” Rachel hollers, banging feebly on the door a few more times, but Santana ignores her and, as she promised, sits watching the door with her earbuds in.

She’s taken the power in the situation as best she can, but still, the desperate measures involve keeping them in her room with her _bed_ , which is far from ideal, but…she’s sure it will be worth it to stop them sniping all the time.

She’s also glad that _she_ has never been asked by Rachel to rank musicals, because honestly, she’d figured Rachel liked _Chicago_ and _Cabaret_ about the same…apparently not…

“Bitches _that_ stubborn and particular deserve each other,” she mutters, blasting some Janelle Monae into her ears.

 

Rachel huffs a few times through her nose, staring at the door as if it, too, had told her it prefers _Chicago_ (Quinn has gotten to know this particular disappointed and loathsome expression well during the past week). Quinn watches her dully for a few moments, and as irritated as she is with the situation, she can’t help but appreciate how good Rachel looks. Now that she’s distracted from her own sadness and anxiety over their fight, she remembers why she used to like antagonizing Rachel so much in high school: she is gorgeous when she gets fired up. Her eyes are bright and alive beneath her knit brows, her full lips pout in frustration, drawing down the skin over her cheekbones to emphasize them even more, and her elegant nose, in profile, is stately and graceful and gorgeous…

When Rachel seems unwilling to speak or even look at her, Quinn finally gets up and goes over to Santana’s desk, where, indeed, there is a rectangular black box with a post-it that says “Open after you bitches make up.” Quinn takes it over and drops it on the bed between them, “Whatever she’s left us, we can’t open it until we make up.”

Rachel doesn’t say anything, still standing on the other side of the bed and staring resolutely at the door, as if expecting it to evaporate so she can make her escape. Finally, she says in a formal tone, “Well, I’ll accept your apology any time.”

“Are you _kidding_?!” Quinn bursts, “Frankly, I think you owe _me_ an apology for—for putting your _principles_ of Broadway musical taste before _our relationship_!”

“Taste is something I value very highly in a partner, Quinn!” Rachel retorts, “and I honestly thought you had better taste than you’ve shown!”

“This is _not_ the first thing we’ve ever disagreed on, and I’m honestly flummoxed as to why this has become a deal breaker this time!”

Rachel stamps her foot, which Quinn notes distantly probably hasn’t happened since high school, “Because this kind of thing could have a huge impact on our ability to be lifelong partners!”

Quinn really doesn’t know what to say to that at first, until her frustration surfaces and, “Right now, I _really_ can’t imagine subjecting myself to you _for life_ when you are _this ridiculous_.”

“Well, _I_ don’t even think you’ve given _any_ thought to our future together and that makes me question whether _I_ even want to be with _you_!”

Quinn closes her eyes and inhales, trying to reign in what’s left of her temper, because despite the fact that she struck with a low blow first, Rachel _knows_ better. She _knows_ how Quinn spent her high school years _dreaming_ of finding a way to spend her life with Rachel, feeling bitter and angry every time she wrestled with the fact that she thought it could never happen for _so many reasons_. When she opens her eyes, Rachel looks a little bit guilty, but still furiously glares past Quinn’s shoulder, and Quinn knows she probably just looks hurt. She looks away, her eyes falling to the box on the bed, next to the bowl of popcorn and Santana’s laptop.

“Oh, this is stupid, we’re never going to make up,” Quinn growls irritably, and picks up the box. Rachel opens her mouth, probably to admonish Quinn for breaking the rules, but closes it when Quinn begins to tear off the ribbon keeping the lid on the box.

At first, she thinks it’s a hairbrush. It’s the right shape, except a bit larger than normal, but when she picks it up and turns it over, there are no bristles or teeth on the other side. The other side is different, however, slightly softer. Quinn spins it in her hands three times before she abruptly realizes what it is.

“Oh my God!” she chokes, half dropping it, half flinging it down. It tumbles, clattering against Santana’s laptop momentarily. Quinn continues to stare at it in horror, eyes fixed as if it might flee if unmonitored, but after a few moments Rachel picks it up curiously.

“What’s wrong with it? What _is_ it?” Quinn watches with wide petrified eyes as Rachel handles the object, and Rachel rotates it twice in her hands before her own eyes bug in sudden realization. “Oh,” she utters softly and, holding it gently with just the tips of her fingers, she places it back down on Santana’s bed delicately.

For the first time in over a week, their eyes meet, uncertainly and anxiously, though just beneath the surface, Quinn thinks she sees a hint of amusement in Rachel’s expression.

“I can’t believe she bought that for us,” Quinn mutters fervently. “I can’t believe she thinks we’d _use_ it.”

Now Rachel is definitely amused, although she looks away from Quinn and back to the object. “Oh, I don’t know,” she muses, “I think I understand. I’m pretty sure whichever one of us is responsible for this fight is supposed to be punished.”

The way she lifts her gaze back to Quinn’s at the last word causes a little shiver to run down Quinn’s spine.

But immediately afterwards, her competitive spirit kicks in, and she straightens her spine, fixing Rachel with a steely expression, “Oh? Are you telling me you’d like me to,” her resolve fails for a moment, and she gestures feebly at the…object before finally growling, “…paddle you?”

Rachel scowls darkly, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her voice as she responds, “I hardly think I’m the one who deserves to be spanked, Quinn.”

That low tone, so different than the way Rachel had shouted her name only minutes before, settles warmly in Quinn’s chest and stomach. She swallows reflexively, and she and Rachel lock eyes again.

There are three seconds of very intense eye contact, in which the challenge is evident in both their expressions, until, as if signaled by a starting gun, they both lunge for the paddle at the exact same moment.

There’s an immediate scuffle. Quinn leans over to grab it, while Rachel practically dives bodily for it. They nearly bumped heads for an instant, but then, because it had been a little closer to Rachel, Quinn finds herself grasping at Rachel’s wrists in an attempt to prize her hands off of the paddle. In a few moments, Quinn is climbing onto the bed as well to try to get better leverage, and she’s leaning over Rachel, who is trying to curl her body forward around the paddle to protect it. Quinn leans over Rachel’s back and tries to pry her hands through her girlfriend’s arms, which are locked tight against her sides, holding the paddle to her chest. Quinn huffs and backs away for a moment. She can see Rachel relax slightly, perhaps thinking she’s won, but…

Quinn strokes Rachel’s sides lightly and then digs her fingers into her underarms. Rachel is immediately squirming and thrashing and giggling madly and Quinn manages to snake an arm under her and grab the paddle. She flips Rachel onto her back with her body weight and manages to twist the paddle out of her grasp.

Quinn stands up, breathing elevated from their wrestling, brushing her hair fully out of her eyes. Rachel scrambles up and backs away from the bed, which now has popcorn scattered lightly across it, her eyes fixed upon the paddle in Quinn’s hands. Quinn isn’t really sure what she’s supposed to do with it, so, watching Rachel, she begins to lightly bounce it off her palm.

Rachel backs away further, placing her back against the door. She runs her gaze up and down Quinn’s form, eyes always returning to the paddle. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, “This is a terrible idea. Oh my God. That is a weapon. We are going to kill each other. Why did Santana give us a weapon when we’re fighting?!”

Quinn gives no verbal reply at first, but instead begins to circle around the bed slowly. She’s astounded to find that her anger with Rachel has quite evaporated; in fact, she’d more or less forgotten they were fighting, distracted as she was by this _thing_ Santana had given them. Finally, she stops, still about five feet away from Rachel, “Oh, I don’t think anyone is going to get killed. This isn’t a weapon, baby,” the pet name slips out without her even realizing it. “It’s a sex toy,” she finishes lowly, raising an eyebrow.

In reply, Rachel begins to bang her palms against the door, her back still pressed firmly against it. “Santana!” she hollers, “It’s okay, we’re done, we made up!”

There is absolutely no sound from the other side of the door. Quinn snorts. “I think you’re at my mercy,” she purrs.

“Quinn,” Rachel says warily, “SM 101 says that you shouldn’t utilize BDSM play when angry or to work through anger.”

“I’m not mad,” Quinn answers immediately, “Not at all. I’m just eager to give you your punishment.” She raises her eyebrow again and gazes sternly at Rachel, trying to channel her inner Head Cheerio. Rachel can’t seem to decide where to look and her gaze flies from Quinn’s face to the paddle and back again. She also seems to be trying to make herself seem smaller and her back is still pressed against the door.

“I think you deserve the punishment,” Rachel mutters stubbornly. Quinn grins and steps forward, her free hand finding Rachel’s and interlocking their fingers. When she leans down to kiss her, Rachel straightens up to meet her. It’s a soft kiss, tentative. Rachel’s free hand settles on Quinn’s waist very lightly.

“Maybe later,” Quinn whispers. Still gripping Rachel’s hand, she leads her over to the bed. Rachel follows very hesitantly. “I won’t hurt you,” Quinn reassures, “I mean. Not really.” She sets the paddle down and draws Rachel toward her, kissing her again. Hoping it will reassure her.

This time, Rachel responds with more passion. The kiss gets heated and Quinn wraps a hand in Rachel’s hair, while one of Rachel’s hands finds Quinn’s jaw. Quinn turns them and slowly tips Rachel back so that she sits and then lays down on the edge of the bed, her feet hanging off. Quinn straddles her hips and leans over to kiss her, one hand pinning Rachel’s wrist in an expression of dominance, the other sliding up and down Rachel’s side and brushing against her breasts teasingly.

Rachel is arching up into her teasing hand, her pinned hand pressing back. Quinn smirks as she continues to hold her down and is careful to keep her hand teasing, barely touching no matter how Rachel arches.

It’s this struggling, perhaps, that makes Quinn forget about Rachel’s other hand.

Because she’s honestly shocked when a poorly-aimed _thwack_ hits her more on the hip than the ass.

She jumps and tries to scramble off Rachel, but as soon as she lets go of the hand she is pinning, Rachel is halfway sitting up and Quinn’s collar is balled in her fist.

“Get back here,” Rachel growls, and pulls Quinn back down, kissing her harder.

The angle is terrible, but Rachel twists beneath her and strikes again. Again, it barely connects effectively. Making a frustrated noise, Rachel shifts beneath Quinn until they’re perpendicular and sits up, grabbing Quinn’s hair to keep her horizontal across Rachel’s lap, her legs awkwardly stretched out to the floor, supporting her. Quinn’s hands grope frantically for a moment, closing and shoving Santana’s laptop far away and under a pillow, and more popcorn scatters, but she stays where she is across Rachel’s lap.

And then, Rachel strikes again.

It’s not a very hard strike, but it connects solidly and loudly. Quinn gasps in surprise.

“Did that hurt?” Rachel asks worriedly.

“No…not…really,” Quinn answers hesitantly, scrutinizing her feelings. In truth, she’s been aroused since she had grabbed the paddle and thought she might have Rachel at her mercy; watching Rachel’s face and feeling the power of the situation was, as it had been many other times for Quinn, an aphrodisiac. When Rachel took control, she was surprised to find that this didn’t change. Perhaps because they hadn’t even kissed in a week, Quinn wanted something _physical_ from Rachel very badly.

The physical strike she was given probably _would_ have hurt, she reflects, if she weren’t so turned on already. As it was, unexpectedly, it just made her more aroused.

The next blow is a little harder, and Quinn inhales sharply. It still isn’t really painful; what should be pain radiating from the region fades quickly to a wave of pleasure. Rachel hums in appreciation and strikes again. This time Quinn groans slightly.

“Good,” Rachel says softly, “This is what you get for endangering our relationship with your questionable taste and stubbornness.”

“Oh _hell_ no—” Quinn starts, but is silenced by another strike. At this point, though, the spell is broken, and she lets her legs unlock and simply slides off Rachel’s lap and to the floor. She stands quickly and fixes Rachel with a stern look, “That’s enough,” she snarls.

Rachel peers up at her anxiously, afraid she’s actually upset her. Quinn keeps her expression a glower and holds out her hand. Rachel hands over the paddle.

“You’ve _really_ earned it this time,” Quinn says throatily. She tries to smile reassuringly at Rachel, but suspects it’s actually more of a leer. “Get on your knees.”

Whether from fear or arousal, Rachel is quick to comply, turning over so she is on her hands and knees on the bed. Quinn hopes it’s the latter, but figures she should make sure first. She puts a knee on the bed next to Rachel and wraps an arm around her midsection. She can feel Rachel’s heart jumping in her chest. She leans over and runs her tongue along the shell of Rachel’s ear, then whispers, “I love it when you get on your knees for me.”

She hopes that’s reassurance enough that she’s not actually angry. The way Rachel’s breath hitches in reply makes her grin, and she stands back on the edge of the bed again.

She pushes Rachel’s dress up roughly, displaying black panties, and caresses them for a few moments. And although it’s hard to tell with dark underpants, she thinks Rachel might be… _yeah_.

She presses the paddle lightly against one cheek, watching as Rachel’s back arches. She smirks. “Eager,” she murmurs, then pulls back and delivers a smack.

It’s not hard. As much as the idea of spanking Rachel has become suddenly appealing, her brain exists more in the space of worrying about hurting her. It’s really the feeling of dominance that Quinn enjoys, more so than the act of striking Rachel. So she watches, and in response, Rachel arches a bit more, presenting more of her ass. Quinn does it again. A few more times until, finally, she hears Rachel barely whisper, “Harder.”

Quinn strikes a bit harder, and Rachel moans audibly. It’s enough to make quicken her pace a little, watching Rachel’s body hungrily. Because while Quinn had somewhat enjoyed it when Rachel did it to her, it’s clear, from the way Rachel arches her back and leans toward Quinn that she _actually_ enjoys it…

It’s not long after that it registers with Quinn that Rachel’s flesh is pink. While Rachel is still eagerly waiting for another strike, Quinn worries. She doesn’t want Rachel’s skin to be sore, so she tosses the paddle aside and grabs Rachel’s ass. There’s a gasp, which makes Quinn worry, almost certainly unnecessarily, that the flesh is too sensitive to be handled, so she slides down Rachel’s panties instead. She wrestles them over Rachel’s knees and completely off and then leans forward and drags her tongue over the exposed pussy.

She had been correct. Rachel is _very_ wet and feeling and tasting it on her tongue is delightful proof. It isn’t the easiest way to really get Rachel off from this angle, but Quinn makes the best of it. She slides her tongue inside and dips lower to flick against Rachel’s clit, repeating the actions randomly. She likes having a good angle to _really_ drive her tongue inside, but she knows it won’t be enough.

“I love tongue fucking you,” Quinn murmurs lowly, and the uncharacteristic swearing makes Rachel groan an affirmative of pleasure. Quinn’s hand moves quickly and purposefully and, barely a few seconds later, she’s slipping two fingers inside. Rachel releases a joyous sigh and presses back against Quinn’s hand. Placing a knee on the bed beside Rachel, Quinn leans over so she can kiss between Rachel’s shoulder blades and allow her other hand to caress Rachel’s breasts over her dress. It also gives her more room to maneuver her arm and good leverage, which she takes full advantage of by beginning to move her fingers rapidly, occasionally plunging in deep, or pausing to stroke and press inside.

It’s a well-practiced technique. Rachel loves penetration, whether toys, fingers, tongues. And Quinn has learned over time how to drive Rachel crazy. There have been a few times in which she has managed to make Rachel come solely by the frantic fucking and pressing and deep pounding of her fingers and once, a strapon, but generally, Rachel needs a bit more to get there.

So Quinn takes her time, stroking Rachel’s breasts with her free hand until she can find a nipple to roll beneath the fabric, resolutely avoiding Rachel’s clit. Soon, Rachel is rolling her hips rhythmically back against Quinn’s hand, whimpering and gasping in time with the thrusts of her fingers, and moaning loudly with each deep plunge. Quinn’s knuckles are soaked, her arm is tight and beginning to burn, and she’s sure that very soon, there will be a wet spot on Santana’s comforter…

The movement of the mattress beneath her alerts her that Rachel’s weight is shifting and she catches sight of Rachel’s hand attempting to reach between her legs, and she releases the nipple she’s been teasing and grabs a handful of Rachel’s hair. “No,” she growls, pulling back steadily, not jerkily, “Hand down. I’ll touch you when I’m finished with you.”

Rachel moans loudly, half in protest, half in aroused desperation, “God, I can’t take much more,” she whimpers breathily.

“Oh, yes you can,” Quinn answers decisively with another slow pull of hair, “I want you to feel it tomorrow.”

There is a tightening around her fingers at those words. “Fuck,” Rachel pants, “I’m sure I will already, you haven’t fucked me like this in—” Quinn presses inside, firm and as deep as she can, massaging with the tips of her fingers “— _fuck_.”

Quinn chuckles, loving the cessation of speech and the way Rachel is pulsing around her fingers. She realizes she actually probably doesn’t have long; Rachel will end up coming whether Quinn touches her clit or not, so she drops her handful of Rachel’s hair and trails her hand down clothed breasts and stomach until she’s batting the edge of Rachel’s dress out of her way to stroke her slick clit.

She has barely ten seconds to enjoy the way Rachel’s hips increase the pace of their rolling, the way her mouth is slowly opening and her eyes are rolling back and she’s pulsing harder and…she releases a strangled moan and she’s coming, squeezing and clenching around Quinn’s fingers firmly. Quinn continues to stroke, more lightly, both inside and on Rachel’s clit, to draw out the orgasm for as long as possible. Once, she thinks Rachel is finished coming only for another shudder to ripple through her as she moans and clamps Quinn’s fingers once more. It’s after this that Rachel’s arms give out and she allows herself to fall onto her side.

Her knees trembling and her arm aching, Quinn gets off the bed and withdraws her hand. Rachel appears to be catching her breath and Quinn watches her warily, uncertain if her anger will resurface now that her libido is sated. When, about a minute later, Rachel sits bolt upright, Quinn nearly flinches (the flinch response had been conditioned out of her by Sue Sylvester). But Rachel reaches for Quinn, drawing her closer, then standing and twisting their bodies so that Quinn ends up on her back on the bed. The bowl of popcorn finally tumbles to the floor, and Quinn can feel something hard beneath the pillow her head has ended up on—Santana’s laptop.

Rachel is climbing over her body and kissing her, but it’s fleeting, and soon full lips are pressing down her neck, over her breasts within her t-shirt, and down her stomach to her waist, where Rachel’s fingers are hooked into her sweatpants and tugging down, down her legs, taking Quinn’s panties with her. Until they’re on a pile next to the bed, and those lips are kissing behind her knee, which makes her stomach jolt, and then a tongue is sliding up her inner thigh.

When Rachel’s warm mouth touches her, Quinn finds she is shaking, and the intensity of everything is pouring over her. She reaches down to thread a hand in Rachel’s hair, and another hand stretches until Rachel, catching the hint, reaches up and locks their fingers. Quinn squeezes hard, thinking about how good it felt to spank Rachel, how much better they both felt just having something concrete to wrestle over. Thinking about how incredible Rachel looked scowling, and then handing back the paddle, and arching and moaning below her as Quinn fucked her hard and fast, and the way that _felt_ , how Rachel was wet and warm and tight.

How incredible it was to finally kiss her and touch her again. To feel close again. To forget the fighting in favor of the fucking.

Rachel’s lips wrap around Quinn’s clit and, with the lightest suction, keep it there while her tongue flicks and swirls around and on it. She thinks about how Rachel didn’t even speak before pushing Quinn down and enthusiastically beginning to lick. She feels the way Rachel is tightly gripping her hand. She opens her eyes—which she often keeps closed just to _feel_ everything a bit more—and looks down to see Rachel slowly open her own. They look at each other for a moment, before Rachel closes hers again in concentration and, humming a moan, sucks a bit harder on Quinn’s clit as her tongue continues to stroke.

Rachel is shifting slightly, lifting her wet chin, still licking, sliding her arm underneath her chest, and then Quinn feels her fingers slide inside, and…the fingers curl, Rachel’s lips press, her tongue lashes, and Quinn feels her hips roll upward involuntarily and then she’s bucking, her back arching hard, her hand squeezing Rachel’s and inadvertently tugging on her hair. She can hear herself, moaning somehow both low and breathily, and Rachel keeps in contact, her mouth moving with Quinn’s hips, as Quinn rides out her orgasm against that perfect mouth.

She lays just breathing, eyes closed, for probably half a minute before looking up to see Rachel next to her, propped up on an elbow, one arm around her stomach. She smiles, Quinn smiles back, and then her mood shifts to horror. “Oh my God. We just had sex on Santana’s bed. On Santana’s _popcorn covered bed_. She is going to _kill us_.”

To her surprise, Rachel just laughs. “I don’t know what else she expected, giving us a spanking paddle.”

Quinn feels her face warm, “Yeah,” she says quietly, then, “I’m sorry about the fighting. Maybe I was being too stubborn.”

Rachel sighs and buries her face in Quinn’s neck, which lets Quinn know she’s embarrassed, “No,” Rachel murmurs, her voice muffled, “It was my fault. I picked a fight.”

“Hmm,” Quinn hums, “Is that what happened?”

“Honestly…yes,” Rachel mutters again, then sits up suddenly and gazes at Quinn imploringly, “I read an article about couples and it talked about how fighting is _good_ for couples because it teaches them conflict resolution so when there’s a _big_ issue, they can resolve it. And I was worried that we didn’t fight enough, so…yes. I picked a fight.”

Quinn stares at her incredulously. “You stayed mad at me for a whole week over something you just _picked a fight_ over?!”

“Well, it _is_ something I’m passionate about. But yes. But I was doing it for the good of the relationship!”

“Rachel, we bicker all the time!”

“Do we?” she asks, mystified.

“What do you call what we’re doing now?”

“…discussion?”

In spite of herself, Quinn laughs, and draws Rachel to her for a kiss, “Okay. We’re okay, Rach. I promise. But if you ever pull something like this again…I know what to do.” She lifts an eyebrow and points to the paddle lying at the foot of the bed.

Rachel wiggles her own eyebrows and says cheekily, “Is that supposed to discourage me?”

Quinn smirks. “How much time do you think we have until Santana lets us out?”

Rachel shrugs. “Half hour? Forty minutes?”

Quinn lunges for the paddle, “I think you need a preemptive punishment. I don’t think you learned your lesson.”

Rachel stifles a giggle, and then sobers. “Can you…hit me harder, this time?”

Quinn's eyes go wide.

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Velvet Underground, "Venus in Furs."


End file.
